


gunfire

by clokkerfoot



Series: Stevebucky domesticity series [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Changing Tenses, Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sharing a Bed, Thunder and Lightning, Thunderstorms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 08:55:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6148277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clokkerfoot/pseuds/clokkerfoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve wakes to the sound of gunfire. He's in Brooklyn, in bed with Bucky, but his head is somewhere else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	gunfire

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings:  
> \- Panic attack  
> \- (Vague) war flashbacks
> 
>  
> 
> Edit: thanks to raviolli on Tumblr for [this AMAZING fanart of this fic](https://raviolli.tumblr.com/post/140375049018/to-go-with-this-lovely-thing)!! :D

He wakes to the sound of gunfire.

_BRATATATAT—_

Tries to gasp. There’s an elephant on his chest. Why is his throat so tight?

He can’t feel his fingers. Did they fall off? Feet won’t move either.

Light, everywhere. Is it a bomb? _The_ bomb. The one they always talked about. Dangerous, they said, said it would change the world.

_BRATATATAT—_

He needs to get out, needs to leave. Can’t stay there. Defenceless. Just lying there.

Can’t move. Damn his legs. Rheumatic fever did that to him, they said.

He can feel it in his lungs. The fever. The light.

That _light_.

_BRATATATAT—_

An MG 42. That’s what the sound is. Can’t breathe, but he wants to tell someone.

Germans, coming up the bank.

Their no man’s land is everywhere, now.

That light again. Familiar. Too bright, too quick. Won’t make it.

Get back, Bucky. Get away from there.

Too late.

Bucky?

_BRATATATAT—_

“Steve?”

Yes, Bucky. Not dead. Good. Oh—

His feet twitch. Ankles burn, throb. Knees flex up and down. He’s on a mattress, he thinks. There’s something soft under his head.

Bandages? No. Pillow. Maybe.

Wants to touch something. Needs to feel something.

That light again.

Can’t breathe. Oh, God.

“Hey, Steve? It’s okay. I’m here.”

Steve. That’s him. Yes, that’s him. Bucky sounds worried. Shouldn’t be. Steve can’t breathe, not him. Steve can’t move, not him.

_BRATATATAT—_

“It’s just thunder.”

He says something. MG 42. He’s sure of it. Four of them, just down the hill. Don’t look, Bucky. Don’t look. They’ll blow your head right off.

I’m more worried about _your_ head, pal.

Shut the hell up, Barnes.

“I’m here. Can you breathe, Steve, please?”

No. Can’t breathe.

“I’m going to count to three. Breathe on three or I’ll cuff you.”

Oh, that light.

One.

Two.

Three.

_BRATATATAT—_

“Breathe, dammit!”

Ow. That hurt, Bucky.

It’s about to hurt a lot more, you little shit. Give me back my cap right now!

“Steven Grant Rogers, you breathe right now or I will kick you out of this fucking bed!”

They haven’t shared a bed before.

Must be something new they’re trying.

Probably Bucky’s idea.

Light.

Can’t be long, now.

Not long to go.

Nearly time.

C’mon. End it. Might hurt less.

_BRATATATAT—_

_—_

_—_

Steve landed face-down on the floor and gasped. He sucked in a far larger lungful of air than he expected to, and it knifed down his throat, sharp and soft and hot and cold all at once.

“Fuck,” he croaked, the lining of his throat unexpectedly dry. He sucked on his cheeks and swallowed a mouthful of saliva, then rolled over onto his back.

Bucky was stood above him, hands on his bare hips, frowning.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve mumbled. He rubbed his eyes and held his arm up in the air. Bucky grabbed him with his metal arm and pulled him effortlessly to his feet, all the mechanics in his hand whirring and clicking, “Why’d you push me off the bed?”

“You were having a fucking _panic attack_ ,” Bucky said, voice deathly quiet, “A bad one. You weren’t breathing. I figured a shock would wake you up.”

“A panic attack?” Steve frowned. He didn’t remember that, “Why?”

As if on cue, a viciously bright white light filled the room, followed by a sharp crack of thunder that sounded _exactly_ like gunfire. Steve jumped at the sound, choked on air and bit his tongue, then collapsed into Bucky’s arms.

His heart was beating unusually fast and Bucky was stroking his hair and it _was_ helping but he couldn’t shake the tension in his knees, even when the dreadful sound of the thunder stopped. He’d had panic attacks before, back when they were _actually_ at war, but he hadn’t for a long time, and never because of thunder.

“A thunderstorm,” Bucky said in a low, calm whisper, “It’s just a thunderstorm. Not guns. You’re fine. I’m here.”

Steve nodded and turned into Bucky’s chest. He couldn’t feel his heart beating, so he listened to Bucky’s. Wordlessly, Bucky maneuvered Steve until he was lying back down on the bed. Bucky lay down beside him and shifted closer until their shoulders were touching.

“It’ll be over soon.”

“That’s what you said about the _war_ , and look what happened to you,” Steve grumbled. He covered his eyes with his hands when lightning lit up the room again.

Bucky’s hand was suddenly on his stomach, rubbing little circles around his navel, and the tickling sensation distracted Steve just enough to stop him from making a sound when the thunder struck. He jolted, his joints going tight and stiff, but clamped his mouth shut.

“It’s alright, Stevie. You’re allowed to be scared.”

“‘M not scared.”

“ _Suuure_ you’re n—it’s okay, even if you are.”

Steve focused on his breathing and dug his knuckles into his eyes, cursing himself for being so jumpy. Bucky was silent beside him, still rubbing circles into Steve’s stomach, but Steve could feel his hand shaking, could feel the tension in his shoulder.

_Oh, Bucky._

“It’s okay,” Steve said, as quietly as he could, “It’s just a thunderstorm. It can’t hurt you.”

Bucky laughed, dryly, “I’m not the one who had a panic attack.”

“You’re shaking.”

Bucky shrugged, “So? It’s cold.”

Steve rolled onto his side then, knocking Bucky’s hand away. He moved closer to Bucky, putting his weight onto his elbow, then carded his free hand through Bucky’s hair, “C’mere, Buck.”

They leaned in at the same time, and Steve kissed Bucky square on the mouth.

_BRATATATAT—_

Both of them jumped and froze, but Steve forced himself to move. He kissed Bucky as hard as he could, eyes closed, until Bucky kissed him back. The next flash of lightning made Steve’s stomach hurt—it was too bright, and he knew the following thunder would be louder than before—but it was over before he knew it, and Bucky hadn’t stopped kissing him.

The storm continued to rage for another hour, each crack of thunder rumbling across the sky, but by the time it died down they were both asleep and snoring.

Sleeping together in the middle of their bed, in the middle of their home, in the middle of their city, they felt almost—well, they weren’t _content_ , but they were _something_.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr [here](http://clokkerfoot.tumblr.com/).


End file.
